The City of a Thousand Souls
by Ashabagawa
Summary: In the shadowy streets of Barcelona, Senor Salvador Miedaclere agrees to teach young Christina Lamira how to read. However, when the corpse of a man is found in her tutor's study, Christina begins to doubt everything and everyone, including herself...


The City of a Thousand Souls

Chapter One – An Angel's Blood

_Barcelona, 1923_

I was seven years old when I first met Salvador Miedaclére. It was a cold, dark evening in the middle of winter and the rain lashed down the windows of the motorcar, leaving sparkly tracks, as if made of diamonds, on the dark window panes. It was the first time I had ever been in a motorcar, the exciting new invention from the West, and I was enjoying myself immensely, clutching my father's hand excitedly as we bumped and swerved our way through the darkened streets I had only ever travelled through at a walking or cycling pace. The car was not ours. It belonged to my father's employer, a landowner named Don Carlos Requiez, the man we were now on our way to see.

I had never met Senõr Requiez before, although I felt as though I already had, from the rants and raves my father would expel after a day working for the miserly man. I knew enough to picture him, in my avid, excited seven-year-old imagination. I always thought him to be short and fat, even though my father had never mentioned his size or stature and in my mind's eye he was always clasping a bottle of some sort, as drinking was the common practise of bad men, or so I had been told. Alcohol was evil, according to my father, and he had fallen prey to it enough times to be an expert on the stuff.

I glanced up, grinning, at my father. He smiled back, squeezing my hand, obviously finding my childish excitement amusing.

Our visit to Senõr Requiez was not merely a sociable one. My father worked as a handyman at Requiez's estate, dealing with all things that needed a strong pair of hands to lift. The pay was not a great deal, yet it paid rent for the small, poky flat we inhabited, over a dressmaker's shop. My father's wages did not pay for my schooling however, and as my father was illiterate himself, I was left without much hope of an education, spending my time helping with chores in the dressmaker's below our flat.

This was the nature of our visit. According to my father, he had managed to strike a deal with Senõr Requiez. Requiez would either teach me himself, or pay for someone to teach me how to read and write. My father was determined I would read. Having been brought up poor and desolate, my father had never had the opportunity to learn as other children did, yet was certain I would. As a daughter and not a son, it was unusual for a father to take such an interest in my education. But I had no mother, my father never talked about her, and so I was the only thing my father had, and after his long drinking spell, his poor conduct and loosing several jobs, he was determined he wasn't going to lose me too.

The car climbed the hill, the lights of Barcelona far below us blurring with the raindrops clinging onto the glass, giving the city a warm, fuzzy outline against the sky. I had never seen this view before and I peered out into the inky blackness, my hand pressed against the window.

"Christina." I turned to see my father shaking his head frantically and gesturing towards my greasy palm now flat against the cool glass. I removed my hand, leaving an oily outline on the glass. I bit my lip; the car was Senõr Requiez's and he might not consider his offer any further if I dirtied any more of his possessions. My father shook his head, the ghost of a smile hiding behind his lips.

The road seemed to get steeper and steeper and I found myself being pressed into the back of the leather seat, jolted as we hit an occasional pebble or stone. I privately wondered if we were travelling into the heavens. The road levelled again and I breathed out. The land on top of the hill was inhabited with trees and we followed a winding lane leading through the dark, evergreen forest. Then, as we turned a corner through the expanse of green foliage, I found myself confronted with the biggest house I had ever seen.

Square and solid, the house leaked grandeur and expense into the night sky, the gabled rooftops kissing the black, velveteen clouds that sailed sedately past, quite different from the grey clouds of smog that hung in the alleyways of the city down below.

The car stopped and we climbed out, the chauffeur escorting us to the front door. My mouth was still hanging open as we were ushered into the main hall. Marble coated the floor and huge chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, almost dangerously overloaded with glass and crystals that sparkled and shone. I was sure this must have been the palace of some sort of god.

"Don Requiez is expecting us." My father said to someone. I didn't bother to see who it was; I was too busy drinking in my beautiful surroundings to notice anyone. My father placed a hand on my shoulder. "Don't get too used to this, Christina." He said, following my gaze to the marble statue in the far corner of the room. "We've still got to go home at the end of the night."

I smiled, having been brought back to reality.

"Senõr Lamira?" A man had stepped into the hall. From his suit and manner of walking, I assumed he was the butler or some other high ranking servant.

"Yes?" My father asked.

"Don Requiez will see you now."

We followed the man through a pair of oak double doors on the left hand side and up a flight of stairs. I couldn't help ogling the splendour of the rooms, each seeming more glamorous and beautiful than the next.

Finally, we came to a smaller, dark door. The butler knocked, before opening it and gestured for us to step through. We obliged and found ourselves in a small study, completely covered in shelves of books.

They were everywhere and I felt almost as if they were taunting me, these strange instruments of words. They filled the shelves, the tables and were piled up high on the desk, behind which a man was sitting.

I was rather disappointed with Don Carlos Requiez's appearance. Quite the contrary to my imagination's image, he was a small, beady man with large eyes, one of which was magnified by the monocle he wore on a long golden chain. He looked up at our entrance.

"Senõr Gustav Lamira and his daughter Senõrita Christina Lamira, Don Requiez." The butler had entered behind us and now gestured to my father and me.

"Ah, yes." Requiez shut the book he had been studying and surveyed me through his monocle. "So..." He began. "...this is the girl?"

"Yes, Senõr." He studied me again, his cold eyes slowly devouring me until I was fully digested. I gulped, not enjoying the scrutiny.

"Can I discuss this with you privately?" He said, his words spoken slowly and deliberately.

"Of course." My father turned to me. "Wait outside, Christina." He said, motioning towards the door.

I quietly left the room, shutting the door behind me, all too glad to be away from the piercing gaze of Senõr Requiez. After some reflection, I wasn't quite sure how I felt about him. He certainly wasn't what I imagined. I leaned against the wall beside the door and studied the painting on the wall opposite me.

It was of an angel, dressed entirely in white and surrounded by a crowd of malicious onlookers, reaching up to the black, grim sky. The angel had a huge gash, running from its neck to its chest and it was bleeding heavily, blood running down its body and moistening the grassy ground beneath its feet. In my seven-year-old mind, it was a little bit miserable to have hanging inside a house. Nevertheless, I stared at it for a while, trying to make some sense of the unfortunate scene.

I imagined the angel had committed some sort of terrible deed and that the wound was God's way of punishing it. The deed would have to have been truly terrible, as the angel's face was a picture of great sorrow: pearly tears rolled down its beautiful cheeks.

"Strange, isn't it?" The voice came from further down the corridor, silky and soft. I turned sharply, shocked by the sound and saw a man, leaning against the wall further down the corridor.

He was very pale, almost translucent. He was clothed in a silky suit, of the finest material money could buy. He was very tall and so there was a lot of suit, covering his huge body. Besides this, it was his face I found most interesting. He was exceedingly handsome, handsome enough for even a seven year old to notice. His hair was long and dark, falling around his shoulders like a veil. His nose was very straight and his mouth thin. His eyes were perhaps the most intriguing of all. A dark, rusty red, they watched me in the gloomy darkness of the corridor, seemingly never blinking. He got the impression he was trying to intimidate me, and I resented this.

"Yes. It is." I replied, trying to sound unfazed by his appearance. He came closer, until he was standing next to me and stared at the picture. I took this opportunity to study his face again.

He was even more beautiful up close, yet his face did not seem friendly, or welcoming. His skin had a sort of blue tinge to it, which made him look ill and his eyes were outlined with purplish bags, giving the impression of lack of sleep.

"Who do you think she is?" He asked me, indicating towards the angel in the picture.

"She?" I asked, before I could stop myself. He looked at me, his eyes almost black in the dim lighting.

"You thought her a man?"

"No. I..." I looked down and studied my boots. "I never thought of it either way, really." I said. "I always thought of angels as emotions and feelings, rather than actual people." I looked up at the picture. "I suppose it could be a girl, really."

"I think her beautiful." He said, narrowing his eyes as he stared at it.

"I suppose...it's just a picture."

"Indeed." He turned and looked at me. "What's your name, child?"

"Christina." I said. "Christina Lamira. My father works for Senõr Requiez."

"I see." He frowned. "And what brings you here, Senõrita Lamira?" I paused. I wasn't sure I ought to be divulging everything to this complete stranger, no matter how handsome he may be. After some consideration, I couldn't see how telling this man the purpose of our visit could harm anyone.

"My father is negotiating with Senõr Requiez, concerning an offer he made a few weeks ago, about teaching me to read." There was a pause.

"You cannot read?" The man spoke slowly, his eyes searching my face for a sign of denial.

"No. I can't write either." I felt embarrassed by my confession.

"And yet you speak so well..." He surveyed me through his rusty eyes, seeming to come to a conclusion. "My name is Don Miedaclére. Don Salvador Miedaclére. I hope your father's negotiation's come to a desirable conclusion." He smiled coldly, dipped his head and sauntered back down the corridor.

I stared after him, trying to make sense of the conversation that had just passed between us. Miedaclére. I had not heard the name. Perhaps my father knew it. I couldn't help wondering why he was in Senõr Requiez's house. It must have been a matter of business, or some other drab subject that wouldn't interest a seven year old. I turned back to the picture. On closer inspection, the angel was definitely female, the long lashes giving her away. I turned to the crowd. They all seemed fairly plain, their faces all twisted into expressions of evil or malicious glee. All apart from one. My heart seemed to stop beating.

Looking at me, from out of the painting, was Salvador Miedaclére.


End file.
